


loss for words

by scrubbadub



Category: South Park
Genre: Implied Twole, M/M, Pining, Stan's Gang (Mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22506472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Gregory traps Mole and Tweek in a closet. He's a little asshole trying to play matchmaker. It doesn't work very well.
Relationships: Christophe "The Mole"/Tweek Tweak
Kudos: 11





	loss for words

There is sunshine in his heart, and it is a terrifying sight to behold.

Christophe knows many things. They are absolutes. They rest close to his heart, behind the walls he has erected, behind the pillars he has made for himself to lean on when there is nothing but his own strength to keep him aloft; they are facts, unchanging, or at least he thought they were.

Then there was Tweek.

When Christophe arrived at this school, Gregory in tow, two halves of a pair, he did not expect to make allies. He did not expect to be dragged over to a table by his stupid, British friend, the one exception to his rule, made to sit down and behave like a toy soldier, wound up to play along- and he did not expect to enjoy the company there.

To an extent, anyways.

He has… opinions, already, on the majority of the people at that table. Clyde is a slob and will get himself killed with his foolishness. Craig’s aloof nature will get him far, but his hesitancy to accept help will get him nothing but a blade to the throat when the time comes. There is always something waiting around a corner. That is why he must be vigilant.

Tweek, though… he is different.

He is nervous and twitchy and paranoid and he sees pieces of himself in the way Tweek talks, through the stutters and the exclamations; he sees intelligence, the true kind of knowledge that mankind denies itself through ignorance shining through in his ramblings, and he finds himself drawn in. It is a danger in and of itself, the allurance of wanting to know more, and it is warm.

So startlingly warm that he cannot hope to replicate the feeling.

He searches online to try and find the cause of the feeling. What kind of parasite, what kind of Coloradian, airborne illness has he caught, what kind of ailment has he that makes him think of Tweek when drafting plans for an underground tunnel through the Coloradian mountains? What kind of _torture_ is this, to wonder if he’d have any valuable input, to think carefully about what kind of pencil strokes he’d make as additions to his work?

The thought never leaves, and he ignores it- until finally, he can’t. Gregory has pulled yet another of his stupid, shitty little schemes, the concieted piece of shit; he cannot keep his stupid English hands out of other people’s business, it seems, and him and Tweek have ended up trapped together, stuck in this school broom closet, waiting for a teacher to find them.

Or for him to break down the door. Whichever happens first.

“Oh, God, we’re gonna die, we’re gonna run out of oxygen or food or nobody’s gonna find us, fuck, aagh, how the fuck did we get stuck in here anyways, _shit_ \--”

Though he will _admit_ , listening to this man rave on and on about their impending doom is wearing very fucking thin very quickly. Makes the warmth ease. He half wishes he’d do it more, if only so he can grow just as annoyed and less enamored. Certainly makes things easier. “ _Jésus putain de christ_ \- stop bitching for five seconds, help me break down ze door!”

“We could break our arms! _Fuck!_ What if we do, and then they don’t find us--”

“Zey will _find us_.” This is a foul situation.

“ _What if they don’t!!_ ” 

“Zen you will die a lonely, anxious death because apparently you are incapable of _calming ze fuck down_ for five entire seconds! Now either help me break down ze door, or stand zere in the corner and have your meltdown and _stay out of my way!_ ” He is harsh. He knows this. He feels nothing about this fact. It is a cruel truth and proof of the world’s own mark on him that he feels nothing at this curtness. 

Though he is surprised to find he starts to feel bad when Tweek does the _opposite_ , instead clutches at his hair and starts having a mini meltdown; he is not good with people. He doesn’t… do emotions well. 

So this is new territory, and he’s entirely unfamiliar and a little more than his fair share of apprehensive about trying to help. 

He does. Want to help, that is. Interesting. 

“... Tweek.” He tries to get a word in. 

“-- and then we’re gonna be stuck in here because you broke your, aagh, you broke your arm or got wood stuck in your hand or you broke your neck something could HAPPEN--” 

“TWEEK.” He’s a loud person when he wants to be. This is a fact. Another… _thing_ he cannot debate about himself. Tweek snaps to attention, no less panicky, and he makes a face. “... we will not be stuck here forever.” 

“You don’t _know that!!_ Neither of us _know_ that!” 

“... I do.” He doesn’t understand why Tweek is so _terrified_ of the prospect of being unable to trust judgement. His judgement is sound. This is nothing but another door to be broken and another passageway to be made. He tells himself this, he squashes his own fear, he does not let himself feel it, because to do so would admit defeat, and that… that would be a mistake. 

“No!! _God!_ You- you don’t know that, you can’t possibly know that, _neither_ of us know whether or not we’re gonna be able to get out of this _fucking closet!!_ ” 

“They did not enlist me in espionage for no reason, you stupid, loud American, do you think I am incompetent enough not to bring tools to get us out?! Shut up.” That seems to just make him make a noise of frustration, and he growls out his own, turning back to the door. It’s cramped and he’s pissed off, now. 

"No!! No, what if I be quiet and then we can't speak anymore, you don't, stop, stop ACTING like you KNOW everything!! What the fuck is an espionage, anyways?!" He should know what espionage is by now, he's old enough to grasp the concept, but Mole reckons that in his panicked, irrational state, it doesn't cross his mind. He just grumbles something in French and slams himself into the door as hard as he can with his shoulder, hearing the door rattle. Tweek jumps visibly. 

"What the fuck??" He tries again. There's a crunch in his shoulder that doesn't go away when he pulls himself back, but the hinges on the door have finally started to come loose, and he can see the places where the screws have been bent loose. One more good barrage should break it down. "Stop it, what the fuck, you're gonna hurt yourself--" 

" _So be it._ " One more hit against the door and it comes down, flying off of it's handle, hitting the wall behind it. He stumbles out with the force of the blow and dusts himself off with the arm not currently throbbing in pain and dusts himself off, giving a small mental congratulations, and turns back to face Tweek, grinning triumphantly. 

He’s still panicking in the back of the closet. Huh. 

“... what are you doing. The door is open.” Tweek just shakes his head, hands grabbing at his hair, and finally bolts out, pushing past Mole; he turns to face him, though, and points an accusatory finger at Mole, grasping for words, failing, and ultimately settling with a loud noise of frustration and settling anxiety. 

“I got us out, did I not? Ze door was stuck, I fixed ze problem, now you can stop your ceaseless fucking bitching about it and help me with my shoulder.” That makes Tweek pause. 

“What-- goddamn it, I told you that you were going to hurt yourself!! Agh- let me, let me see it, what did you do to it, did you draw blood? Oh, God, if you drew blood you could get seriously hurt!! Rrgh!! You’re such a- why are you so fucking _immediate_ about the things you do?!” He _has_ to be. He doesn’t understand why Tweek can’t fucking _grasp_ that by now, that there is urgency to every situation. It’s a death sentence not to act with what time you are given, fear be damned. 

“I _had_ to. You were panicking, the solution was there, and you were going to be of no obvious help, and now you are sitting here worrying about whether or not I am going to die because of a stupid fucking dislocated bitch of a shoulder. Eet is _fine._ Help me reset it." 

“You dislocated your shoulder?!” He can see the cogs turning in Tweek’s head, the panic battling with the frustration and anger and confusion, and he sees him settle on pissed worry. It’s… after the initial frustration with the situation, he can see him try and problem solve, and it’s a little endearing. He doesn’t _want_ it to be. He didn’t _ask_ for this. 

“Oui. I am used to it. These things happen.” Tweek reaches for his shoulder and he instinctively flinches back, the dim evening light filtering in through the available windows of the school hallway, and he can see the way the light frames Tweek’s face; the emotion is dulled by the throbbing in his arm, of course, and the firm denial still trying desperately to take root in his mind, but there is no doubt in his mind that it is one of the most charmingly foreign faces he has ever seen. Not in the _weird_ way, just… foreign to his frame of reference, foreign to what he’s been taught should be handsome. 

“That’s not okay!! You shouldn’t be- you shouldn’t be used to it, if you’re used to it that means it happens a lot and that means that you’ve probably, I don’t know, you probably seriously damaged your shoulder by now!! What if you lost all circulation to your shoulder because you dislocated it so bad someday, or because of muscle damage you could have severed some important nerve, and then you can never use your arm again, and you’ll never dig again, that’s really important to you, right, you should _fucking care_ about that--” He just keeps rambling on and on about potential consequences that have yet to pass, gently feeling at the base of his left shoulder, and he rolls his eyes, flexing his hands. 

“It is _fine._ I will keep doing it and the solution is to reset it, now stop acting like such a fucking pussy about it and put your hands here and push.” He probably grabbed Tweek’s hands a little too roughly, he will admit, but he positions his hands properly and scowls, brows furrowing. 

Tweek groans in frustration, hesitating, before finally pushing down as hard as he can, and there’s the sharp, stabbing pain of his shoulder being reset, and he waits for the pain to settle back down into a dull throb before he rolls it once and takes a deep breath. He’s careful about it. Methodical. He’s done this before. 

“You’re an asshole!” 

“Oui. This was never made unclear. You have known this.” He’s never made it unclear that he was an asshole. 

“Yeah, but you- you just-- AUGH! You don’t get it! You keep pretending you have the situation under control!! The ONLY reason you did was because you, you, you had to HURT yourself just to get us out of there! It’s ridiculous! Why do you have to always, you, this isn’t, I don’t fucking get it!!” 

“It’s not rocket science! If it is necessary, then I will do it, obviously you are not going to do it!” 

“ _Fine!_ I’m not just gonna, I’m not gonna stand here and fucking worry about you while you gloat about being an asshole and hurting yourself, then, okay?! Screw you!” He gets poked in the chest and Tweek stomps off, and he’s left wondering what he did wrong. He feels… 

_Bad._

Why does he feel bad about that? 


End file.
